


the inbetween.

by redvox



Category: DreamSMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: DreamSMP - Freeform, DreamSMP War, Gen, Jschlatt - Freeform, Plot Twist, Wilbur Soot - Freeform, ghostbur tries to remember everything, im posting this at 1 am, kind of, major spoilers for nov 16 war, mentions of niki - Freeform, mentions sleepy bois inc, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27854958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redvox/pseuds/redvox
Summary: "you look a little scared. you never thought about death before, have you?" the echo of footsteps (like the snap of business shoes against tile) and the soft noise of glass rustling together (like bottles of beer that are being cleaned after the party) fill the space. "though, i guess you never thought you'd be stuck in-between reality and the afterlife. you thought you'd be sent right to hell, right?"=====ghostbur and ghosty schlatt reunite.intentional lowercase, and based off of ghostbur's amnesia.not ship. /roleplay DSMP
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, enemies - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	the inbetween.

a damp and cold feeling surrounds a lifeless body. the atmosphere is still and unmoving--like the blades of grass standing at the ready, the leaves that hang and wait for the day to break free, the empty sky with no clouds to signal the turn of time. it's a tight feeling when something passes through, the way it feels like trudging through the snow. the air is empty, lacking of fuel and fire, slouching on the duty of trying to give life to those inhabiting it. 

a sudden gasp, as if begging for fresh air, fills the silence. the body sits upright almost immediately, as if on command, and looks around. the immensely  _ terrifying _ feeling of seeing nothing but emptiness, a gray scene with nothing occupying the space. the breathing gets heavier, a heavy feeling that comes into the lungs and barely lets anything out. it feels like the lungs are sinking. they're begging for air and getting nothing but the feeling of weights stacking up one by one. and with each heave, there's no ho to follow. and with every inhale, there is no exhale. panic rushes through the body, yet there's no feeling of the body shaking, the rush of being light-heated, the burn in the throat, the unsettling fever that rushes to the head, the sweating of palms, the stab in the chest, the fear that is unwavering and unforgiving until the body burns out and caves in--

"oh." a voice calls from the scene. and the body can't figure out where it's coming from. it sounds masculine and full of confidence, a little heavy with something hidden behind the tone. "i thought you'd last a little longer." it sounds hurtful and like an arrow to the back of the head, blood rushing from the wound and pouring down the back of the body's neck.

"you look a little scared. you never thought about death before, have you?" the echo of footsteps (like the snap of business shoes against tile) and the soft noise of glass rustling together (like bottles of beer that are being cleaned after the party) fill the space. "though, i guess you never thought you'd be stuck in-between reality and the afterlife. you thought you'd be sent right to hell, right?"

a cold hand reaches downward and settles on the body's shoulder. brown eyes meet with bright yellow eyes, pupils a narrow oval shape with white slits right down the center. large, dark brown horns sculpt a masculine-looking face, the peak of the horns curving right around a striking jawline. the starting point of the horns are rooted somewhere in the disheveled look of black hair. it looks like it hasn't been groomed, and at the edges it appears as though they were dipped in gel. the jawline is covered with facial hair, trimmed and presentable, that flow into a semi-cleanly shaved beard. the fire of the yellow eyes are intimidating, almost fueled with the lust for power and greed. a large burn mark crawls along the left side of the face, barely crossing over the bridge of the nose. the wound appears to be in the process of healing, yet somehow neglected and gruesome. the way they look--everything about their facial attributes look strikingly like the devil's goat. and brown eyes travel down from the piercing yellow to a black business suit, riddled with holes and tears. the cuffs and the lapels are scorched, the threads are fraying and look ready to be pulled right from their positions. the white undershirt is stained a mustard yellow, the rusty-colored buttons are missing, and the red tie is half-done and burnt at the bottom. perfectly shined business shoes finish off the outfit, looking like they were fresh out of the box. 

the hand then moves to grab a hold of the body's face, gripping it forcefully at the cheek and perfectly cupping the chin in the crease between the index and the thumb. it is cold and uncomforting; it feels like when a father scolds a boy and has to keep the stable eye contact when the son is moments away from crying. "why are you looking at me like you don't recognize me?"

the body pulls away from the touch. "you remind me of the devil's goat."

"a  _ goat _ ? what an insult." the goat scoffs and crosses his arms. do you forget that i was  _ president _ once?"

"president of what?" the body looks at their hands and sees that the hands are cut off by a yellow jumper. trying to pursue the appearance more, they move their hands out of their eyesight and see blue jeans (somewhere in the middle of the blue-denim spectrum) and black shoes complimented by bright white socks. the hands pull on the jumper to move it outward and sees a gaping hole in the middle, somewhere right in the chest region. fresh-looking blood surrounds the torn threads and blood splats scatter around the wound. suddenly feeling the urge to feel their face, the hands grab a hold of the skin and it feels soft. cold. and they pull on their hair, feeling curls and soft locks coil around each finger. 

"if you're going to call me a goat, then i'm going to call you a traitor. that's  _ what _ you are, anyways." the goat's voice snaps the traitor out of his momentary trance and gets his brown eyes to meet the fire of the goat's yellow.

"you didn't answer my question, goat."

"okay, i hate that nickname. pick something else,  _ please _ ."

"then the devil." the phrase comes out of the traitor's mouth like it was waiting for the chance to break free. he watches as the expression of anger on the goat's face turns to a sudden shock, and then an even angrier face. the goat's eyebrows furrow and almost meet together in pure anger, and the fire behind the yellow eyes grow so much brighter, as if those words threw firewood into the fireplace.

the goat leans down grabs a hold of the traitor by the collar of his jumper and reels back a semi-justified fist. "this is why you're here. because you pull dumb shit like this and purposely try to get under everyone's skin. all of your friends left you alone for this  _ specific _ reason. they were always afraid of you for being fucking nuts, and they had every reason to be. you're so fucking lucky that it's  _ me _ you're seeing in here and not the devil himself." the goat huffs into the traitor's directions and the air smells horribly of alcohol.

"did you die of alcohol poisoning?" the traitor asks, unaffected by the sudden violence. "and you still have yet to answer my question."

bare and cold knuckles collide with the traitor's face right in the middle of his face, popping a bone in his nose and causing pressure to build up in the center. the goat drops the traitor back down onto the ground, and the traitor falls backwards. he puts a delicate hand up to his nose and touches below the nostrils, not feeling the warmth of blood but rather being able to see it instead. and yet he feels no actual pain, just the sudden burst of pressure before it fades away instantly and leaves his nose a bloodied mess. on the goat's knuckles, there's a heavy trace of blood that coats the peak of the bone and drips down to the fingers. 

"would you stop asking me so much shit if you can't even remember my name?" the goat says in disbelief, anger filling his voice. the tone of his voice grows as he continues onward. "for christ's sake,  _ wilbur _ , you act like you fucking died and then got your memory wiped. what do you  _ mean _ president of what? what the fuck do you  _ mean _ did i somehow miraculously die of alcohol poisoning? i had a heart attack right in front of your fucking eyes and you're somehow playing it off as if you were asleep through that!" he takes a deep breath in and wipes his knuckles on the left side of his suit. 

"for fuck's sake, wil--you told tommy to shoot me right between the eyes in front of your little army."

"wilbur?" wilbur tilts his head in confusion. "is that my name? i only remember the land of l'manberg."

"that's it, you dumbass!" the goat throws his arms out in disbelief. "that's the land  _ i _ ruled as president! i cannot fucking believe you right now." he laughs and it's filled with pity and disgust, like the man could care less about the amnesiac presented before him.

"but  _ i _ was president. and i remember setting up a voting thing because someone said we needed more democracy. i don't remember your face or your name, though. you don't even feel familiar to me, yet the name 'tommy' does."

"do you need a refresher? are you more braindead than i am?" the goat sighs and sits across from wilbur. "tell me everything you remember, then. i'll fill in the blanks with what i know."

"i built l'manberg with two other people. there were others involved, and i believe one was a traitor. 'it was never meant to be' comes to mind when i say 'traitor.' and then there were votes, and the running away from people trying to murder me. a cold ravine that this space reminds me of. a son, a boy with a fox-like face, perhaps  _ even  _ a fox, and a fish whom i felt strongly for. a woman named niki. a man with a mask who was stronger than the entire nation of l'manberg combined. a man with pink hair and a face riddled with scars. two loud boys, maybe they were kids." wilbur takes a breath, and his voice starts to quiver. "the feeling of air rushing through my body, like how there's a hole in my jumper and--and how it felt like i was being pierced by a loving blade. the fear of losing something i once had. the cold feeling of a room with lines etched into it. lines of a song. i remember being able to play guitar. i remember a song my father sang to me. the longing feeling of wanting to be held like a child again. the intense fear of death. the comforting touch of the reaper." he wraps his arms around himself. "that's all."

the goat nods all the while through. "to keep it short and sweet for you, wilbur, i'm the guy you lost the presidency to. the name's schlatt. the kids you built your city with are tommy and tubbo. tommy was the one you ordered to kill me. eret was your traitor, siding with the man in the mask, dream. your son, fundy, was a back-up vice president." schlatt laughs a little, almost in a mocking manner. "your wife was a fish? that's messed up." he cleans up his act and continues. "techno was the man with pink hair. he was by your side, but i don't know if he ever betrayed you or your army. niki was your friend, she kept you and your little 'brothers' safe from me--or tried, with tubbo. speaking of, tubbo was my right-hand man, and i had techno kill him for me."

"you did what." wilbur's voice grows cold, and all emotion fades from his face.

"he was betraying me. in the end, both him and i ended up with burns from the fireworks. his wounds are far worse than mine. his entire body and part of his face are burnt." schlatt shrugs his shoulders. "we're moving on. i don't remember anything else, either. i remember being very violent to you and your little goons. i also remember having my men try and kill you and tommy once i exiled you."

wilbur's face nor voice change. "you were cold for that."

"i didn't care about anyone in my campaign. i just wanted the land to myself," schlatt gets up with a breath, "and i got what i wanted. i didn't get to finish everything, though. you also became insane. as in, you tried to snipe me or get information through techno. and there was talk of you planting a  _ bomb _ under my great nation."

wilbur follows getting up. "what do you mean? i wouldn't do anything like that."

schlatt turns his back to wilbur and begins walking in a direction. "i know it seems like an endless emptiness, but, wil, you can see how life's moving on without you. it's fucked up to me. you'll see exactly what i mean with the damage you caused. i tuned out after dying, and came back to rubble. my best guess is that  _ you _ did this."

wilbur follows schlatt through the emptiness, both footsteps echoing throughout the scene. their vibrations flow through their bodies, sending empty and numbing chills up their spines. and it  _ does _ seem endless, as they continue walking as if nothing is changing. yet wilbur puts trust in a man who tried to kill him. 

"what was rubble?" wilbur asks, walking a little faster to walk side-by-side with schlatt.

"manberg." schlatt turns to wilbur and pierces through his frozen heart with those devil-yellow eyes. "i'm only putting two-and-two together here. you saying there's stacks of TNT lying underneath my nation, and then the nation is destroyed by what looks like layers on top of layers of dynamite. it only makes sense, ya follow?"

wilbur nods. he feels a sinking feeling in his stomach. "why would i do that?"

"'cause you're fucking nuts, buddy! or, you were. you seem a lot tamer now." schlatt's footsteps stop echoing, as if they're being muffled by something. "keep walking with me."

wilbur looks down as he hesitantly crosses the gray 'floor' of some inbetween into a land covered with grass. he looks up to schlatt a good meters away, his body blending in with the scenery. "you're transparent."

schlatt stops and turns around. "huh? what'd ya say?" he raises his voice in order for wilbur to hear. "stop lagging behind, dumbass."

wilbur doesn't go immediately, to which he hears schlatt begin to bitch about it. but he's too busy looking at the world in front of him. it's a familiar forest with tall mountains surrounding the large oak trees placed into the ground like chess pieces on a board. the bright green leaves give way for the sun to come through and place gentle rays atop the ground. the pure white clouds roll by, being fluffed by the gods and shifted along as if on a conveyor belt. to the right is a shoddy hole in a mountain that is barely covering a small place to hide and stay in for the night, and to the left is more of the trees and rolling hills cowering behind them. and schatt stands between the two, his black suit now turning a gray and showing the grass behind him. in fact, his entire body is showing the ground behind him. his skin looks gray, and his eyes look softer and less hostile.

"wilbur," schlatt yells, "can we hurry the fuck up now?"

wilbur nods and does a small jog to catch up to schlatt, continuing to walk side-by-side with him. "it feels nice, schlatt."

"what does?"

"to be outside. this place feels like a home. i feel.. happy when i'm here." he plays with the hem of his jumper and keeps looking around. he sees beautifully painted flowers and hears the sweet buzz of bees. he somehow feels the touch of the sun against his pale-gray skin, a warm and gentle graze that raises the hair on his neck. he hears the whistle of the wind and watches as the leaves delicately dance with one another in a slow dance. "how often do you come here?"

schlatt doesn't respond, but he acknowledges the question as he stops walking for a moment and lets out a breathy laugh. wilbur's content with the answer he received. "how far away is l'manberg?"

"about a hundred more steps. i counted them when i decided to go venturing around. that's how i kind of found this pathway. its five hundred from where we were stood until you see the light and the grass, and then three hundred to get to the outside of manberg. once you're outside of the place, you just have to walk along the pier to get inside."

"why did you count them?"

"in case i got lost," schlatt softly responds. "listen, i don't give a shit about a lot of things, and i don't know why i'm showing you all the shit you did after i died, but i think it'll help you 'atone for your sins' or some shit so you can pass to either heaven or hell."

wilbur stops in his tracks and grabs a hold of schlatt's arm. "so then you saw what you had to fix in order to pass on?" 

schlatt turns his head to face wilbur. something behind his eyes is casing the fire, putting it out and destroying all intimidation buried within. instead, something akin to regret swells behind them. his eyelids droop a little and he looks away for a moment. "i did. but i don't think i'll pass on through."

"why not?" wilbur tilts his head. "wouldn't it be better to be either cascaded by the fires of hell that can keep you warm despite having an awful time? or to even be able to feel the sun along your skin and become a divine angel?"

"i'm not afraid of where i'll go," schlatt starts, and he pulls his arm out of wilbur's grasp. "i'm not afraid to let go of coming here, either. and i know i can fix all my wrongs to try and appease god." he looks away from wilbur and towards a silhouette of civilization in the distance. "i'm worried what the hell they're gonna do to my land."

wilbur snickers, almost as if he can't tale schlatt seriously. "really? you'd rather stay in emptiness for eternity than be in a place with someone you  _ know _ ?"

"what if we don't end up in the same place?" schlatt turns to look at wilbur again and, this time, wilbur has to take a step back. schlatt's eyes are burning him. "i mean, if you go to heaven and i go to hell, i'll be alone like i was before you showed up. here, if i stay, i can still be president. sure, i'm alone, but i can fuck with people." schlatt's words feel fake and empty, like he's hiding the true reason.

wilbur won't press on. "that's messed up," he gives a fake chuckle, "but i guess that fits you."

schlatt gives a genuine laugh from the belly and pats wilbur's back. "see, you remember me a  _ little _ bit, bud."

the two continue walking in the direction of l'manberg--manberg?--and end up making it to the pier. they step onto the creaky spruce planks and keep making their way into the heart of the city. schlatt's filling the silence and blocking the squeaks of wood with small chatter, talking about how he only made quackity his vice president because he thought the man's propaganda was 'too good.' wilbur's kept his gaze ahead, nodding in affirmation and laughing along to some quips schlatt tells about his own life. and it amazes wilbur--it fills his chest with glee--that someone who has hurt wilbur so much can change in a second, as if they'd had a bond beforehand.

"be prepared, big man." schlatt looks to wilbur and then back to the city. "you'll see the destruction."

wilbur's eyes widen as he sees the rubble line the border of the city, large piles of debri and holes in the ground the size of planets leaving their impressions into the earth. his eyes then move frantically to the place where the election results were announced, seeing the entire structure beat down to nothing more than debri coated with dust. the craters in the ground act as the ballpit to the barely-standing bridges made of wood. low effort attempts to save what could be salvaged scattered the scene. he looks towards the direction of the houses and sees part of the homes destroyed and drooping downward, close to snapping and caving in to make a new home in the giant pit beneath them. the scene feels so  _ heartbreaking _ , like he had witnessed the death of the people he loved. it feels nothing like home, nothing like the land he built with his friends. and yet it feels so  _ real _ , and it strikes a headache in his head. he was sure he couldn't feel pain but the rush of pressure to his head takes over any confusion. he breathes in, an empty inhalation of regret, and exhales all the feelings he had bottled up before death. 

"i didn't--" wilbur can barely get the words out as he holds his head, storming forwards into the heart of the city and staring at the gaping hole in the middle of the city. he sees broken signs of what looked to have writing etched into them, and the destruction of a bunker that held up for the most part. the bunker wears a few battle scars, never actually cracking under the pressure. he immediately hops down into the hole and enters the bunker, hearing the worried yell of his name come from schlatt. 

along the cold walls of the stone bunker lie lyrics of an anthem written in blood. it's mocking wilbur, imitating his writing and almost  _ laughing _ at him. on the far side of the wall is a stone button and a sign that is horribly scribbled upon with a wood carver. wilbur cannot even recognize the actual words, only picking up on the mannerisms of his handwriting that he sees (and how scary it is to him to see the mess he left behind). there's a bloodstain that merged with the stone, resembling a puddle after the rain. there's also a sword that glistens despite no sunlight. the tip of the blade is smothered in blood and parts of what he assumes to be his own skin and tissue. he covers his mouth, and the pressure builds up in his head.

wilbur feels like he's going to explode. his head is throbbing with such immense pain he doesn't think any human has ever felt in their lifetime. it hurts so much. it occupies all thought processes and slowly crumbles him to the floor. he brings his knees to his chest and places his hands along the sides of his head, inching closer to his forehead and applying his own amount of pressure. he faintly hears schlatt talk to him through the echo of white noise, to the loud ringing sound, to the screams that feels too familiar. he feels the hole in his jumper burn into his body's chest, the rush of air sending all-too-real chills through the husk of a body. he puts his head against the tops of his knees and stays in this position, letting every emotion and feeling flood his body. for the first time, his hands feel warm and sweaty. his eyes feel wet and almost as if he's about to tear up. his lungs finally feel the expanding and descending of his chest and finally taste the oxygen surrounding him. his entire body shakes and shivers like he's in the artic. he lifts his head slightly, seeing schlatt sat in front of him with such worry across his face. he sees his arms around his peripheral vision, implying schlatt has been trying to shake him to consciousness. 

wilbur is finally met with the memories flashing before his eyes. he watches himself in the third person: the moments before even coming to the land he shared with dream, where schlatt embodies the energy of a friend who one could turn to for a laugh. the memory of coming to this land and getting into a petty squabble with dream and his friends over a piece of land. the war of l'manberg and the internal treason of eret. the discs that tommy surrendered to dream in order to keep wilbur and company safe. the way wilbur watched his friend turn to fiend and exile him. the moment before falling into the ravine and cracking his head open. the sudden rush of waking up to being healed by such a warm touch of niki. the betrayal of his son fundy. the pained screams of watching tubbo die before his eyes. the sudden rush of adrenaline after hearing tommy and techno argue. the pit. the bloody knuckles of techno and the face of tommy littered with bruises. feeling such a joy in knowing he was the true traitor. the way he felt nothing when he watched schlatt die in front of his eyes. the chaos happening above him, and the stomach-turning screams and cries as the series of explosions go off. the teary-eyed look his father gave him before impaling him. the hum of his father's lullaby flooding his ears before he finally gave up his soul. 

wilbur crawls into schlatt's arms and starts sobbing. they're loud wails and heavy cries. dry heaves and choked sobs with no tears ever pouring from his eyes. he feels weak and worthless. the bunker feels nothing like home to him. it feels just as empty as the emptiness he woke up in. it feels just as heavy as his lungs did. it tears at his nerves and splits the ends like the threads on his jumper. it knocks the pressure right to his chest like the punch to the face. he can hear schlatt talk to him, a muffled voice trying to communicate to the mess wilbur is.

wilbur doesn't even feel the touch of a friend he once knew. he doesn't even feel the static in his head transfer to the tips of his fingers. he doesn't remember how to breathe, his chest puffing and sinking in an irregular pattern as if it even mattered to him. he can't formulate the words he needs to, tongue tied by a force unknown to him. yet he makes out cries and screams and pleas of forgiveness from his friends, from the people he once loved. he begs for mercy, to be banished to hell and have his soul burned over the hot coals. he bangs his fists on schlatt and curses himself to all hell and back. he doesn't dare lift his head once, his voice beginning to wear and become hoarse. he coughs and chokes, his mouth dry with sin. it feels so human to react this way. it feels unreal that he's ever acted  _ that _ way. 

but it is the truth, and the string holding together wilbur's sanity finally snaps. 

"wilbur," schlatt finally gets through, and he has to hold wilbur by the shoulders. "wil, pull it together, man." he gently shakes poor wilbur, watching his head limply lull back and forth on the joint connecting his head to his neck. 

wilbur keeps his head hung in shame and pushes his palms into his eyes. he shakes his head repeatedly, over and over again, a disobedient child refusing to do what he's told. he feels the urge to bask in this feeling forever, to never get over it. he lets schlatt try to talk him out of this, to try and heave him off the ground and into a semi-mobile position to walk out of the bunker, to break through the chains keeping wilbur pinned to this room. 

"i was never going to heaven, schlatt," wilbur finally forms, his voice tired and sore from the screams. "i was never going to the hell from the books we learned from." 

wilbur picks his head up, his eyes devoid of feeling. he has a soft smile etched into his face. his dimples poke through, appearing as a creepy smile one's told about from old folklore. his hands are stable yet there's electricity running through them. his head stills but the buzzing and ringing is constant and never-ending. his chest is full of air but empty of feeling. 

"what do you mean, wil? you're going to heaven. you're going to talk to them--"

"you don't get it, schlatt!" wilbur finally unwinds, the ringing breaking every nerve in his body. "i can never redeem myself from this!" he laughs a little too much for comfort and tilts his head back against the walls of the bunker. "i'm so happy you have so much faith in me."

a strong slap to the face sends wilbur into a laughing fit. schlatt simply stares and watches it unfold before him.

"i'm never going to heaven, and i'm never going to hell. now i know why you say you want to stay here, schlatt."

"you know  _ nothing _ . you're talking nonsense just like when you were alive," schlatt spits. "you act like a creep just to get off of other's fear--"

"oh, i know so well." wilbur looks up to schlatt who has fear hidden behind those yellow eyes. the sudden cut-off causes schlatt to cringe in something heavier than fear. "you're not passing on not because you don't want heaven or hell. i know you don't care about where you'll ever end up." 

schlatt shakes his head. "no, i said that because it is the truth--"

"you don't want to go to hell because this  _ is _ hell! this is our personal hell we must bring with us until we are burnt at the stake!" wilbur exclaims with a sudden burst of joy. "there was never no passing on!" he keeps laughing, running his fingers through his hair, raking up what was left of his sanity.

"you need to get out of here now. you weren't supposed to go insane."

"oh, i'm not going anywhere! as much as you'd like me to leave," wilbur slowly stands up and grabs a hold of schlatt's shoulder. the distance between them is large enough that wilbur's fingers barely reach the beginning of the goat's shoulder, but it feels close enough to cause such a stiff tension between the two that not even the holy blade can splice.

"it was never meant to be that i get to see those pearly gates, schlatt," wilbur laughs. he sends a glare right through schlatt's eyes, finally winning the battle of intimidation.

"and neither can you."

**Author's Note:**

> i hope yall enjoyed this. im posting this at 1:30 am and praying for the best.  
> if you missed it:  
> 1\. schlatt's subconscious reason to bring wilbur to get his memories back was to put wilbur in hell, but he was hesitant when they were actually bonding. schlatt is supposed to be inhibited by the devil himself in the beginning (lashing out when referred to as the devil himself), but the true schlatt pulls through.  
> 2\. wilbur remembers everything he did. i love the possession theory but i also like to think that when wilbur finds out everything he did, he simply goes back to being corrupt and never gets to see huamnity again  
> 3\. i never state that they leave the 'reality' because they never do--it's fake. that's why no one else was ever mentioned that wilbur could see (i never get to leave--and neither do you).  
> 4\. it was never an inbetween like purgatory, it was a 'waiting room' before hell.  
> 


End file.
